


(in this twilight) Our Choices Seal Our Fate

by chasingshadows



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Kidnapping, M/M, Slow Burn, mafia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-01 03:09:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1039630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasingshadows/pseuds/chasingshadows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crouching down in front of him, Derek tilted his head, eyes raking over Stiles’ face, unfazed by the death glare he was receiving in return. “I really hope your father cooperates, Stiles. I don’t want to have to hurt you.”</p><p>Stiles scoffed in disbelief, straining as far forward as he could in his bonds. “Yeah, I’m sure the big bad mafia boss would have a mental breakdown and cry himself to sleep every night if he hurt an innocent child. Oh wait! I forgot, you don’t have a conscience.” Derek huffed a small laugh of amusement, but Stiles kept going. “Guess you won’t have to worry about feeling any remorse if you hurt me.”</p><p>His heart was pounding in his chest beneath his false bravado, so loud he was sure even Derek could hear it.</p><p>Derek reached out as he spoke next, cupping Stiles’ chin in his hand. “It’d be a shame, though, to ruin such a pretty face.” His eyes bored into Stiles’, heat rising in Stiles’ bones.</p><p>OR</p><p>based off <a href="http://dylanships.tumblr.com/post/58550834346/i-really-hope-your-father-cooperates-stiles-i">this gifset</a> by Rena (with permission).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rena/gifts).



> I saw this gifset and it broke my brain and I had to write the thing.
> 
> feel free to hit me up on [my tumblr!](http://chasingshhadows.tumblr.com/)
> 
> UPDATE: As of Spring 2017, I restarted this fic. I want you all to know that if it wasn't for your comments, even _3 years _after I last updated, I might have never returned. Your comments and feedback mean the world and I want to gift this fic back to you as a thank you.__
> 
> __I've restructed and changed some things, so I'll be reposting the first few chapters (Chapters 1-4 were condensed into 2 chapters and some scenes were changed) before continuing on with the story. I've got it all planned out so I just need to get it written. I passed the new Chapters 1 & 2 to my lovely beta [Birdy](http://redbirdblogs.tumblr.com) in early July, so I'm hoping to get those and Chapter 3 posted by the end of the month._ _
> 
> __Thank you all again for your love and support over the years. It seriously means the world <3_ _

 

Stiles lifted his head, squinting his eyes as he adjusted. His mind was foggy, trying to remember what happened. He’d been going. . . somewhere - the library? Scott’s? No, he’d been going to see his dad at the station, to apologize. And then-

Hands grabbing him from behind. He’d struggled, but then they were pulling him back into an alley, shoving a cloth against his mouth and nose. The smell reminded him of the hospital, of days and weeks spent sitting next to his mother and holding her hand as her grip loosened and then it finally dropped.

Then darkness seeped into his vision and he couldn’t _think_ , slumping in the arms of whoever had grabbed him.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he breathed out, opening his eyes fully to assess just how much shit he was in. The lighting was dark, just enough to see by. He tried to move his hands only to discover they were mostly numb and tied behind his back - that was just lovely.

He was tied to a chair pushed up against a wall, the concrete cold against his bound arms, and his feet were secured to the legs. “Fan-freaking-tastic,” he said, taking a deep breath to calm himself. Panicking wouldn’t do him any good right now.

The room he was in was small and dingy, a single, dim light hanging from the ceiling. The only other furniture in the room was a chair sitting against the other wall, and Stiles figured that was a decent indication of just how long he was staying here. There was a blinking red light coming from one of the upper corners and Stiles could just make out the outline of a small camera hung up there.

A door he hadn’t noticed at first creaked open to his right and he looked over, letting his head drop back against the wall with a sigh when he saw who entered.

Mariana’s-trench deep, that was how much shit he was in.

Derek Hale was tall, dark-haired, and tan. Stiles’ breath caught in his throat when the light caught his face - he was far better looking in person than in the grainy surveillance photos his father had hung up in his office. He also looked way too young to be the head of the most powerful drug and gun running organization in northern California. The tight, dark Henley he wore emphasized just how much of a size advantage he had on Stiles.

He strutted into the room, closing the door firmly behind him before making his way over with a predatory gleam in his eyes. Sitting down in the chair across from Stiles, Derek set something down behind him, then just watched the younger man for a moment, as if trying to get a read on him.

“You know who I am?” he asked eventually, voice deep but toneless.

“Everyone who isn’t blind, deaf, dead or just plain stupid knows who you are,” Stiles said in answer, ignoring the way the man’s eyebrows lifted at his cheek. But Stiles didn’t give him a chance to respond, continuing as his voice grew angrier. “So what is this, you’re kidnapping the Sheriff’s son to blackmail him into stopping to try and throw your criminal asses into jail? Let me tell you something: that’s never gonna happen.”

Derek looked down, playing with an object in his hands that Stiles couldn’t make out in the light. He didn’t look up as he spoke, voice devoid of any emotion. “Everyone has a breaking point, and while I concede that the Sheriff is an honorable man, I think you underestimate just how much he’s willing to do for you.” Derek put the object down against his leg and reached behind him, pulling out something that looked suspiciously like a leather glove. Stiles narrowed his eyes. “And if he doesn’t comply. . . well, I guess we’ll just have to persuade him.”

Stiles gulped, wetting his lips as Derek pulled on the gloves. He schooled his face before Derek finally looked up, glaring at the man. “What, are you gonna fulfill every mafia cliché ever and cut off some of my body parts and send them to him as a birthday present?”

Smirking, Derek picked up the object in his lap and stood. “You’re a feisty one, aren’t you? I like that.” Stiles ignored the shiver that comment sent racing through his body. “And very brave for someone so utterly terrified,” he mused.

Attempting to look bored, Stiles retorted, “I’m not scared of you.”

Derek’s eyes flicked down to Stiles’ chest, then back up to his face. “Yes, you are,” he replied confidently. Stiles tried to suppress his urge to shrink back when Derek stepped closer, crossing the distance between them in three strides. “And you should be.”

As Derek entered the light, Stiles tried and failed to hide his reaction to the large hunter’s knife in his hands. It was all black and heavily serrated on one side - definitely not something he wanted anywhere near him and especially not in the hands of a nutjob like Derek Hale.

Crouching down in front of him, Derek tilted his head, eyes raking over Stiles’ face, unfazed by the death glare he was receiving in return. “I really hope your father cooperates, Stiles. I don’t want to have to hurt you.”

Stiles scoffed in disbelief, straining as far forward as he could in his bonds. “Yeah, I’m sure the big bad mafia boss would have a mental breakdown and cry himself to sleep every night if he hurt an innocent child. Oh wait! I forgot, you don’t have a conscience.” Derek huffed a small laugh of amusement, but Stiles kept going. “Guess you won’t have to worry about feeling any remorse if you hurt me.”

His heart was pounding in his chest beneath his false bravado, so loud he was sure even Derek could hear it.

Derek reached out as he spoke next, cupping Stiles’ chin in his hand. “It’d be a shame, though, to ruin such a pretty face.” His eyes bored into Stiles’, heat rising in Stiles’ bones.

Stiles jerked his face away, knowing he was only able to do so because Derek let him. “Why don’t you go fuck yourself?” Stiles spat out at him.

Eyes lighting up, Derek replied smoothly, “Maybe because there’s someone else I’d much rather fuck.”

Ignoring the way his spine tingled at the suggestion, Stiles laughed. “Yeah, go ahead and try that. I promise if you lay a finger on me, my dad will definitely stop trying to arrest you.” Derek raised his eyebrows with an “oh really?” expression. Stiles’ voice grew dangerous. “He’ll just kill you instead.”

At that, Derek chuckled. “Well, you’ll have to forgive me if I’m not afraid of the dear Sheriff,” Derek replied, winking. He smiled at him in a way that felt much more like a baring of teeth as he turned the knife slowly in his hands, flipping it so the blade pointed upwards.

Stiles rolled his eyes at the show. Derek was just another bully on a power trip and Stiles was putting up with exactly none of it. “Then you’ll have to forgive me if I’m not afraid of the big bad wolf,” he mocked, sarcasm lacing his tone.

Apparently that was hilarious, because Derek started laughing loudly. He let his head drop as the laughter died down, smiling up under long eyelashes at Stiles’ confused expression. “So does that make you little red?” he joked, and something about it felt extremely leading to Stiles.

“Oh, bite me,” Stiles shot back.

Derek looked up fully, smirk falling. “Don’t tempt me,” he warned, voice serious. Stiles gulped, eyeing the knife as Derek twisted it so he could grip the shaft. He held it up for Stiles’ inspection, eyebrows raised in anticipation.

“What, you need help with it? Because I can think of a few places you could shove it.” Stiles was fully aware that his mouth wasn’t helping the already shitty situation, but he refused to give Derek the satisfaction.

Derek bit at his cheek and flicked his eyebrows upwards at Stiles’ words before giving a short nod. Then, in the blink of an eye, the knife was jammed blade-down in the small space of cushion between Stiles’ spread legs, the edge of the blade pushed _right_ up against-

“Oh, that’s just cruel!”

But Derek just smirked, rising and walking back over to the chair across the room. He bent and retrieved what he’d put down at the beginning, and Stiles _definitely_ didn’t notice what a great view it gave him of the older man’s ass.

As soon as he was able to make out the bottle in Derek’s hands, his mouth began to water. He hadn’t realized just how _thirsty_ he was until that moment, but it was unable to be ignored now. Derek moved forward, twisting off the cap and crouching back down in front of Stiles.

He held the bottle up and gripped Stiles’ jaw in his other palm; Stiles jerked away instinctively. Derek frowned. “Do you want the water or not?”

“You could just untie me,” Stiles retorted.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Stiles’ fists clenched behind him and if it weren’t for the ropes, he’d be decking the smirk right off of Derek’s face. He reached for Stiles’ jaw again and this time the teenager let him, nostrils flaring as he glared. Derek brought the bottle to his lips and he parted them obediently, barely suppressing a moan when the liquid hit his tongue. He swallowed, then let his mouth fill with the water, but in the blink of an eye the bottle was pulled from his lips and two of Derek’s fingers were pressed up against them.

“You even think about spitting in my face and it’ll be the last water you get.”

Derek’s tone was low, serious, eyes boring into Stiles’. That look and that _tone_ shouldn’t make the knife feel uncomfortably closer. It shouldn’t. He reluctantly swallowed, tongue darting out to wet his lips and there was no mistaking the way Derek tracked it, seemingly unconsciously. Stiles didn’t like the way that didn’t make him uncomfortable.

The water bottle was brought back to his lips and he drank from it greedily, letting his eyes flutter closed because it just tasted _so_ good. Derek’s grip around his chin softened as the bottle emptied.

When the last gulp of water poured into his mouth, he didn’t hesitate to spray it right in Derek’s face.

Jerking back immediately, Derek sputtered and wiped at his eyes and nose. Water dripped from his chin as he stood and Stiles couldn’t help but notice that it was a good look on him. He also noticed that Derek was _pissed_ , fists clenching, nose huffing out heavy breaths, shoulders rising and falling with each pant. He glared at Stiles like he wanted to rip out his throat, but Stiles just shrugged. If Derek actually wanted him dead, he had much more efficient ways of accomplishing that, so he wouldn’t actually deprive him of water for more than a day, maybe two. And that would suck, but still. “Worth it,” he told the man smugly.

Derek _growled_ at that, glaring at Stiles for several more seconds before taking a deep breath and stalking over to the door. He walked out, closing the door behind him with an ominous _thump,_ followed by the _clunk_ of the deadbolt sliding home.

Stiles rode on a high of _hell yeah I totally won_ for about thirty seconds before he reevaluated the situation. He was still tied to a chair in the Hale _dungeon_ with a knife pressed up against his junk – and he was hungry.

He sighed. It didn’t make any sense. The thing about the Hales was their spotless record. The reason his dad was alone on this case was that there was just no evidence for anything, nothing concrete on which to base an FBI investigation. They were too well-organized, too careful.

But this, this was not careful. This was risky. Derek would have to cover his tracks, leave nothing behind to incriminate himself in the kidnapping if the Sheriff cooperated and Stiles was allowed to go home. Not that Stiles really expected that to happen, remembering the vicious words he’d exchanged with his father the last time they’d seen each other. And it made him feel sick, thinking about it now, knowing that could be the last conversation they ever had.

Stiles shook his head to clear the thought. He needed to _think_ , to figure out a way out of this. Pulling himself upright, he shifted his hips back as far as he could; even so, the knife between his legs was just two layers shy of causing some seriously unfortunate damage. There was no give to the ropes, though Stiles wiggled his hands enough to give himself rope burn, and even if he could get them free, Stiles could feel that his phone was missing from his pocket.

Fuck, Stiles was so screwed.

* * *

 

Fuck, Derek was screwed.

He paced back and forth in front of the door, willing his claws to retract, but he was too pissed to concentrate.

What the hell was he thinking, kidnapping the Stilinski kid? Laura never would’ve done something this _stupid_ , never would have even entertained the idea. She’d barely been gone five months and Derek was already fucking up royally – he was going to bring down the entire business single-handedly and put all her work to shame.

And all because of some stupid _kid_ with pouty lips and an attitude problem. _Fuck_ , what the hell had come over him in there? Not only was Derek now guilty of kidnapping, but they could also add sexual harassment of a minor to the list of charges he was sure to face.

He wasn’t even sure how it happened. Derek had never even seen a picture of the kid, how was he supposed to know he looked like a freaking runway model? The guy had been unconscious for nearly half of the last 24 hours and he still managed to send all of Derek’s blood rushing south with one look. He was too pretty for his own fucking good.

 _And seventeen_ , Derek reminded himself. He stopped mid-stride, claws digging into his palms.

 _Fuck_ , Derek hadn’t thought this through. He should’ve listened to his uncle, because as awful an idea as that usually was, Peter was right this time.

“Um, Derek?” Boyd’s voice came from behind him and he turned around, noting him, Erica, and Isaac standing cautiously at the door.

He took a deep breath, retracting his claws. “Is something wrong?”

“That’s what we were going to ask you,” Isaac replied, gesturing to indicate Derek’s state.

“Everything’s fine,” he grunted out. He needed to get his head together. “Boyd, go triple check on the shipments and make sure Harris isn’t skimming off the top again. Isaac, call Tara and see what the Sheriff’s up to.” The two men nodded and left the basement, leaving just Erica standing there. She raised her eyebrows at him and he sighed. “Go up to the house and get me one of the empty mattresses. Have Greenberg help you move it down here and into the room across from the entrance.” He pointed up the hallway, to where the guard would’ve lived over a hundred years ago when this place was a fully functioning dungeon. “We want to make Mr. Stilinski as comfortable as possible while he’s our guest.”

Erica nodded, but hesitated to leave. “And how long will that be, sir?”

“Very good question, Erica,” a voice said from around the corner. Peter stepped forward and Derek scowled. “Please, Derek, enlighten us. Tell us about this brilliant plan of yours and how exactly it’s not going to land us all in prison.”

“He’ll be here as long as I need him,” Derek answered, ignoring Peter and standing. “Grab a sandwich or something while you’re upstairs.”

Erica gave him a _look_.

Derek rolled his eyes, grimacing. “Make Greenberg do it. I’ll be out for a bit, but don’t go into that room while I’m gone.” Erica nodded and left. Derek turned to Peter. “That means you, too. I catch you in that room and I will not hesitate to throw your ass in the one next to him.” With that, he brushed past Peter and exited the basement.

Peter, apparently, had other plans, catching up and matching Derek’s stride.

“You have a chance to put all of this behind you and your window of opportunity is quickly closing.” His voice was slick and taunting, and Derek really just wanted to punch him in the face.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Derek said evenly.

“Now you know I don’t like saying I told you so, but-“

“I know nothing of the sort, actually,” Derek interjected.

Peter smirked. “I warned you this was a bad idea.”

“What was I supposed to do? Just wait until the Sheriff realizes he’s sitting on everything he needs to bring down everything?”

Peter deflected with, “I told you I had a way to fix that. It’s too risky to blackmail him without leaving him with damning evidence for later. Phone calls and emails are easy to trace and while Danny may be good, he’s made mistakes before.”

Derek picked up his pace, scowling. He didn’t want to hear this right now.

Peter didn’t get the memo. “You’ve made a mess of things and now you need to clean it up. Stilinski doesn’t know that you took his kid. For all he knows, his delinquent son ran off to LA and isn’t coming back. Sure, he’ll guess, but he has no proof. We can use that to our advantage and fix this colossal mistake of yours before it has the chance to ruin everyone’s lives.”

“How? By killing an innocent kid and pretending none of this ever happened? What about his life? He’s seventeen, Peter!”

“You should’ve thought about that before you dragged him into this. But now he’s here and he needs to be dealt with. Your terrible decision making has cost lives before, what’s one more?”

Derek paused, nostrils flared out in anger. “I won’t do it. I’m not a monster.”

“No one said you have to be the one to snap his neck, nephew. I, for one, would be happy to do it. For the good of the business, of course.”

“Thank you for your commitment,” Derek spat back sarcastically, “but we’ll figure something else out.”

Peter caught Derek’s arm, pulling him back. Derek jerked his arm away, eyes flashing red, but Peter held his ground. “That’s not good enough, Derek. It’s not just your ass on the line here, we’re all involved and if you go down, so will we.”

“I _know_ ,” Derek growled.

“So start acting like it. Man up and take responsibility for your actions, and that includes that kid’s life. He’s seen your face, Derek, so you and I both know he can’t leave that room. You don’t have the guts to do it yourself, that’s fine, but don’t bring all of us down just to prove to yourself that your moral compass still points north.” With that, Peter walked off, leaving Derek standing there, regretting every decision he’d ever made.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws chapter at you and runs*

Flexibility had never been one of Stiles’ strong suits, or so he’d thought. However, he’d somehow managed to contort his body enough to catch the handle of the blade between his teeth and pull it, carefully, from the seat of the chair. He was pretty sure a bomb could’ve gone off and he wouldn’t have heard it over the blood rushing in his ears as the blade dislodged. His balls might have also retracted into his body, but really, who could blame them?

Now came the tricky part. He was pushed up against the wall, so he used the freedom of his hips to scoot himself forward just a couple of inches, biting down hard on the knife so he wouldn’t lose it. He couldn’t help but wince at the noise of the chair scraping against the concrete, even though he was sure the room was completely sound proof. Once he had the space, Stiles looked back over his shoulder, heart racing because this. . . this was dangerous. One wrong slip and he could slice his arm wide open and bleed out on the floor before his dad even knew he was missing.

Maneuvering the handle with his tongue so he was grasping it sideways, he glared up at the camera in the corner. Either no one was watching what Stiles was doing or they just didn’t care – which, _insulting_. He wasn’t sure if the fact that they didn’t seem to think Stiles was enough of a threat to warrant supervision was more indicative of his own harmlessness or of just how powerful they were.

Neither thought was particularly comforting, so once Stiles had the knife secured, sharp edge of the blade pointed away from his face, he looked back over his shoulder. He stretched his neck back as far as he could, pushing his hands out while pulling his elbows in, just to give himself as much space as possible. Once he had himself lined up, he took a deep breath in through his nose.

_One. Two. Three._

On three, he released his jaw to let the blade drop. Time seemed to slow as it fell, blade starting to tilt to the left and in the space between seconds, Stiles started to panic.

But then he felt the butt of the handle _thunk_ into his palm and he closed his fingers around it tightly. Stiles heard more than felt the air leaving his lungs as it dawned on him that he’d actually pulled it off. _Hell yeah_ , that was badass. Grinning, Stiles allowed himself five seconds for a pathetic attempt at a victory dance that amounted to little more than awkward hip shaking. Then he got to work.

Apparently he’d been wrong before. _This_ was definitely the hard part. He honestly felt a little bit betrayed by all of the action movies he’d watched in his lifetime because there was no quick getaway here. It had to have taken him at least forty-five minutes, and he was paranoid the entire time that Derek or one of his cronies was going to walk in before he could get free. He almost lost the blade about halfway through when he tried to angle it to work on the bottom, catching it just before it slipped from his sweat-slick palm.

Eventually, though, he did manage to cut through the ropes, breathing a sigh of relief as they fell to the floor. All of the muscles of his arms were spent and he was hungry and _really_ needed to take a piss, but he’d done it. His arms felt like jelly when he brought them around to his front, but he just shook them out and made quicker work of the ropes tying his feet. Legs shaky after having been seated for who knew how many hours, he stood, gripping the knife in his right hand.

Only to realize there wasn’t much he could do because the door was still locked from the outside and he still had no way to contact anyone. His head felt fuzzy as he tried to think and that’s when Stiles realized he hadn’t taken his Adderall. He groaned. _Shit_.

He didn’t have time to come up with a game plan. Seconds after he stood, he heard the sound of metal screeching from the door as it unlocked. Stiles braced himself, holding the knife up over his shoulder like his dad had showed him – he didn’t really want to throw away his only weapon, but it was also the best way to catch whoever entered off guard. The door pushed open just a crack, and then there was a pause.

Derek’s voice was low, a clear warning. “You throw that knife at my face and I’ll break your arm.” There was no hint of an empty threat in his tone.

Stiles swallowed audibly. So much for the element of surprise. Heartbeat racing in his chest, he lowered the blade, adjusting his grip so he could hold it out in front of him. The door opened just enough for Derek to slip inside and then push it closed behind him, eyes on Stiles the whole time.

Stiles’ eyes, however, were on Derek’s hand, which was gripping something in a plastic baggy that looked suspiciously like a sandwich. His mouth watered instantly at the sight and Stiles dragged his gaze up to meet Derek’s, glaring.

Derek smirked, glancing quickly over to the chair and tattered ropes. “Impressive. Not to mention entertaining. You ever do gymnastics, or are you just that flexible naturally?” he teased.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Stiles shot back, trying to distract Derek while he figured out the best way to attack. “Do you make it a habit to tie up defenseless teenagers with knives between their legs, or did you just want to see what I looked like with something in my mouth?”

Derek bit at the inside of his cheek to hide his amusement and Stiles stepped to the side, knife still poised in front of him. “I wouldn’t call you defenseless - idiotic would be better. You wanna hand over that knife before you hurt yourself?”

Stiles couldn’t suppress his laugh, using the distraction to take another step towards Derek, who didn’t seem to notice. “I think I’ll hold on to it, thanks. Is that sandwich for me, or are you planning on starving me to death?”

“You’re no good to me dead,” was all Derek said in response.

Narrowing his eyes, Stiles took another step. “So give me the sandwich.”

“Give me the knife.” Another step.

Stiles smirked. “Fine.”

He lunged, taking a swipe at Derek.

Derek was faster. Stiles couldn’t quite figure out how it happened; it was so quick. When he caught his breath, there was a dull pain in his left shoulder and a cold touch against his throat. Derek was at his back, hand grasping fully around his left arm, which was rotated at an uncomfortable angle behind his back. Derek’s other arm was laid over Stiles’ own across his front and his hand was wrapped around Stiles’ tightly, knife poised at the left side of his neck.

Stiles swallowed, wetting his lips. “That. . . didn’t turn out quite how I’d intended.”

“I get the feeling that happens to you a lot.” Derek’s mouth was just behind Stiles’ right ear, hot breath sending a shiver down Stiles’ body to places he wasn’t proud of.

“You don’t know anything about me,” Stiles snapped. He attempted to squirm, but there was even less give than the ropes. _Fuck_ , Derek was strong. And that _really_ shouldn’t turn him on.

“I wouldn't be so sure,” Derek told him. "I know that you're an Adderall addict that somehow manages to pull off straight As in school despite, or possibly due to, near constant attendance in detention. You’re a bench-warmer on the lacrosse team and your best – and only – friend is an up and coming star. When you’re not lying to your father about where you are, you’re usually snooping in his office or listening in on his phone calls, and he spends about as much time investigating me as he does trying to get you out of trouble.”

Stiles turned his head slightly, voice more curious than suspicious. “What, are you having me followed?”

“I don’t need to.”

Stiles contemplated what the hell _that_ could mean for a moment and they fell into an awkward silence. He lasted about fifteen seconds before the heat of Derek’s chest pressed along his back became more than his hormonal teenage body could handle gracefully.

“You wanna let go of me or are you gonna just stand there breathing on my neck forever?”

“Actually, I distinctly remember warning you what I’d do if you came at me with that knife,” Derek replied, tugging up as the pain in Stiles’ shoulder went quickly from dull to _very, very sharp_.

“Ah, ahhhh you said if I _threw_ it,” Stiles reminded him, voice high pitched as he suppressed a whine from the pain. “Which I did not. Knife is still firmly in my hand, as you can see.” He pressed his fingers out against Derek’s to emphasize his point.

After a moment, Derek conceded, “Fair enough.” The pressure on Stiles’ shoulder lessened back to a dull ache and he let out a heavy exhale. “Now, here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to let go of the knife and give it to me. Then, we are going to sit and have a chat while you eat. When we’re done, you and I are going to go for a little walk to your new room. Understood?”

Stiles paused, as if to think it over. “And if I say no?” Derek gave a tug on his arm. “Not- not that I’m going to. Just looking at all my options.”

“If you say no, I knock you out, take the knife, leave you here with no bed or toilet, and I take the sandwich with me when I go.”

Stiles ground his teeth, thinking. Every cell in his body was screaming at him to _defy authority_ and tell Derek to fuck off. He didn’t want to make any of this easy for the man.

But Stiles was in absolutely no position to negotiate. Derek held all of the cards and he knew it, and it pissed Stiles off to no end. He _hated_ anyone having this much control over him – he was going to make Derek pay for this. But for now, what could he do?

Jaw clenched, Stiles closed his eyes and said in a low, defeated voice. “Understood.”

 

* * *

 

Derek could feel Stiles’ body slump in his arms when he finally gave in – and it was about fucking time, too. It wasn’t enough that Derek had to pin the guy against his chest to keep him from hurting himself with that fucking knife, no, he had to reek of lust the whole time, too.

Grabbing hold of the knife, Derek released Stiles completely and backed away from him as he stepped forward, shaking out his arm. Derek bent to pick up the sandwich from where he’d dropped it when Stiles attacked, then settled himself in the chair opposite him, gesturing for him to take a seat. After glaring at the chair like it had offended him – which, Derek supposed it probably had – Stiles sat down, crossing his arms.

Derek opened his mouth to speak, but Stiles cut him off. “I’m not saying another word until you give me that sandwich.”

“Fine.” Derek tossed it over, if for no other reason than that Stiles seriously needed it. Even his barely successful attempt to catch the food was indicative of how slow his reflexes were, how dehydrated and hungry he was. He could still smell the cloying scent of the sedative they’d given him and Derek didn’t want to admit to himself that it made him sick to know it was his fault Stiles was like this.

Stiles’ groan when he bit into the sandwich tested Derek’s control more than he liked. He’d been awake an hour and everything about this kid already got completely under Derek’s skin – Stiles was going to be the death of him, Derek was sure of it.

He waited until he’d taken another bite before starting in. “Why are you and your father fighting?”

Stiles nearly choked. After swallowing thickly, he met Derek’s gaze with a blank expression. “Who says we are?”

Derek reached into his pocket and pulled out Stiles’ phone, clicking it on. Stiles gasped, then leaped from his chair towards Derek, arms outstretched for the device.

Holding out the knife to stop him, Derek warned, “Ah ah.”

Pulling back, Stiles stood upright, breathing heavy and staring at the blade. “You won’t hurt me,” he said confidently.

“I don’t _want_ to hurt you. Doesn’t mean that I won’t.”

Jaw clenched, Stiles nodded, still exhaling sharply out of his nose. He didn’t move back until Derek waved at the chair with the knife and he sat on the edge, scowling at his phone. Derek could _smell_ the anger and frustration filling the room, finally starting to cloak the overwhelming scent of lust.

Derek returned his attention to the phone, punching in the passcode and clicking on the texts, reading, “’Please come home, we need to talk _._ ’” Derek glanced up and Stiles looked murderous. He kept going. “’Son, I’m sorry for what I said. I didn’t mean it, and I know you didn’t either. Please call me back _._ ’ ‘Stiles, call me, I’m starting to worry-‘”

“Stop.”

Derek looked up, taking Stiles in. He was standing taut, muscles tense. His fists were clenched and his nostrils flared and he looked for all the world like the only thing holding him back from strangling Derek was the knife. He let the scent of anger and hatred fill his lungs for a moment, clear his head, before repeating his question.

“Why are you and your father fighting?”

“That’s none of your business,” he spat back.

Derek leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “While you’re here, everything is my business.”

“Um, no, actually, it’s not. Your “business” is the smuggling of illegal drugs and guns. And the only thing you need to know about me and my dad is that I’m going to be standing there cheering when he makes his career putting you and everyone you know in prison for a very, very long time.”

Grinding his teeth, Derek didn’t respond. The two just stared at each other while Derek tried to figure out some way to come away from this without feeling like a total failure.

The cell phone buzzed in Derek’s hand and he glanced down, adjusting his grip on the knife when he saw Stiles fidget out of the corner of his eye. It was another call from Scott, the best friend. Derek clicked ignore, then met Stiles’ eyes.

“You’re a curious guy, right?” Stiles narrowed his eyes, suspicious. Derek took that as a yes. “I’ll make you a deal: for every question you answer – honestly, and I will know if you lie – but for every honest answer, I will answer one of yours.”

Stiles’ eyes flashed and his heart beat just a little bit louder. Derek smirked. “Deal?” he asked.

“How will I know that _you_ aren’t lying?” he demanded, but Derek could see that he was intrigued. “I find it hard to believe the big mob boss is ready to spill all his secrets to the Sheriff’s son.”

“I said I’d answer your questions, not spill all my secrets.”

Derek watched Stiles, seeing the moment he understood the distinction; the moment this became a game for him. He smirked and took another bite of the sandwich, barely chewing before swallowing – Derek definitely didn’t pay attention to the obscene way his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Deal.”

“Why are you and your father fighting?”

“Dude, why do you care?” Derek raised his eyebrows. Stiles sighed. “He caught me lying. Again.”

Derek listened to his steady heartbeat, _thump, thump, thump_ , then nodded. “Your turn.”

“How old are you?”

Snorting, Derek replied, “Is that really your first question?” Stiles just nodded. “I’m 25.” Stiles didn’t do a very good job at hiding his surprise, and Derek didn’t know what that meant but he didn’t want to waste a question finding out. “What evidence does your father have against me?”

“You mean besides the kidnapping?” Stiles snarked. Derek gave him a look. “Honestly? Nothing.” _Thump, thump, thump._ “Everyone and their mother _knows_ what you and your buddies are up to, but no judge is willing to risk their job granting a warrant on zero evidence. You think _I_ drive my dad crazy, you should hear him when he talks about you.”

Derek nodded. That meant either Sheriff still didn’t know what he had, or he knew exactly what he had and was doing a good job of keeping it from Stiles.

“Why did Kate Argent kill your family?”

Drawing back, Derek stared at Stiles – he’d expected questions about his operations or how they stayed so under the radar, not about _that_. Stiles gave a lopsided smile and leaned back in the chair, taking another bite of his sandwich while he waited for Derek to answer.

He went with as neutral an answer as he could to avoid _we’re werewolves and the Argents are hunters_ , instead saying, “Her family has had a grudge against mine for a long time. It started before any of us were even born.” It was, technically, the truth. Stiles narrowed his eyes at the answer, but didn’t object. “Why did your father stop sending undercover agents in?”

“How do you know there aren’t any, right under your nose?” At Derek’s look, Stiles chuckled. “Because none of them got through. Not one even got their foot in the door. He’s more than a little perplexed – he called in some of the best agents from all over the country.”

_Good_ , Derek thought. They’d been on hyper-alert since the last one came through, just after Laura’s death. She was a good liar, but as always her heartbeat gave her away the second Derek asked if she was a cop. No human could have picked up on it and normal people never thought to cover it – that was just for the hunters.

“Who really killed your sister?”

Blinking, Derek leaned back, crossing his arms. The kid was good. He bit his cheek and turned his eyes away before answering, “My uncle.”

He didn’t see Stiles’ reaction, but he heard the small intake of breath. Derek didn’t give him a chance to mull it over. “Last question. Why has the Sheriff been doing all the work on this case himself?”

Still contemplating Derek’s answer, Stiles didn’t seem to process the question at first, answering slowly. “Uh, because all his deputies work for you?” He made it into a question, falling forward with his elbows braced against his knees. “Well, some of them, at least. Dad doesn’t know for sure _who_ , so he’s basically playing it close to the chest with everyone. He suspects it’s probably the non-locals.”

“You don’t agree.” It wasn’t a question, so Stiles just wiggled his eyebrows and Derek took that as an affirmation. “And you’re not going to ask who it is either,” he guessed.

“Not gonna waste my last question on something so pointless.”

Derek nodded and ticked his eyebrows up. It _was_ pointless. He had nearly every staffed member of the Sheriff’s department on his payroll – everyone but a deputy from Sacramento and a county-appointed attorney. The Sheriff was a smart man, but that only made him more infuriating.

Stiles popped the last bite of the sandwich in his mouth, chewing slowly before swallowing. “Okay, so you and I both know that lack of evidence isn’t the only reason my dad can’t get any help on this case. Half the time when he approaches other departments or tries to get a warrant, they laugh in his face. From the outside, it looks like all of your operations were disbanded when your family died. Do you know why that is?”

Derek ignored the way his heart clenched when Stiles mentioned his family, grunting out, “Is that your question?”

The side of Stiles’ lips quirked upwards before continuing. “Because over the last six years, Beacon Hills and the surrounding area has had the lowest numbers of drug-related arrests in the entire state – one of the lowest in the country. It’s like it all just disappeared after that fire, so no one is willing to believe this could actually be the home base of Northern California’s biggest drug ring. They’ve all been off chasing their tails in Sacramento and San Francisco, when the real bad guys are getting off scot free instead of rotting in prison.”

Derek rolled his eyes – Stiles was definitely the Sheriff’s son. “Is this a history lesson, or do you actually have a question?”

“I don’t even care how you’re doing it. We both know 85% of this town is either terrified of you or being paid off. You’re the only one with the kind of power to pull it off.” Derek waited. Stiles took a deep breath, sitting up and crossing his arms. “I want to know why. Why waste all that profit potential in the place where you have the most control?”

Derek sighed heavily, glancing away from Stiles’ gaze. He remembered fighting about this with Laura when they finally got back on their feet after the fire. It was the only thing he’d ever really put his foot down over. “Just because I sell drugs doesn’t mean I like them, and believe it or not, I _do_ like this town.”

Eyes growing wide, Stiles gave Derek an incredulous look. “So, what, you keep drugs off our streets because you’re such a good Samaritan?”

Derek bristled at the sarcastic comment, biting back the _Fuck you_ on the tip of his tongue. “We’re done with the questions. Time to go.” He stood, motioning with two fingers for Stiles to rise.

Stiles didn’t move. “Whoa, wait, where are we going?”

Derek twisted the knife in his hand so the blade was lying against the inside of his forearm, reaching out for Stiles’ arm with the other and dragging him to his feet. “ _Like I said_ , your new room.”

Stiles dug his heels in, sputtering, but Derek just hauled him across the room, careful not to grip his arm too tight. When he reached to open the door, Stiles tried to pull back.

“What, you’re not gonna tie me up again or blindfold me so I don’t get away?”

Smirking, Derek pulled open the door, creaking on its hinges. “I don’t need to.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes and stopped struggling. “Good to know.”

At his tone, Derek turned, letting the door fall back several inches. “Would it make you feel better if I did?”

“Not really, but you seemed to like it.”

Rolling his eyes, Derek gave an exasperated sigh. “C’mon,” he said, pulling Stiles out of the room.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorrrrrrrrry that this took so long. This chapter legit fought me fang and claw, but I'm happy with how it turned out.
> 
> Again, great big thanks to my betas [Allie](http://youshinebrighter21.tumblr.com/) and [Heather](http://bloominheather.tumblr.com/), and special huge thanks to [Brii](http://constileslations.tumblr.com/) for basically holding my hand while I figured this all out lol.
> 
> The next chapter should be coming soon!

It was five and a half strides between the bed in the left corner to the bathroom on the opposite wall. Stiles knew he was pacing nervously and knew it wouldn’t help him at all but he couldn’t stop, walking back and forth again and again. It was five and a half strides, every time, and yet he couldn’t help but tick off the number with his left hand on each go-round.

His eyes tracked the lines on the rug that lay across the concrete floor, slid upwards to count the panels in the bathroom door before he turned and dropped his eyes to the rug again. The same pattern, again and again, as his mind tried to pull him in a dozen directions at once.

What was his dad thinking right now? Had he even noticed that Stiles had gone missing? Was he still angry?

What was Scott doing?  Was he worried that he hadn’t heard from him? Was he too caught up in Allison to notice?

What was Derek’s angle? What did he think his dad had on him that would constitute kidnapping? What was he so afraid of?

Why was Derek. . . so not what Stiles had expected? He was a criminal and a dick, but he was also charming and – well, not _fair_ , nothing about this was fair, but he was something close to it. Between the Kate thing and the uncle thing and the _every_ thing, really. . . Derek was quickly becoming a puzzle and that was dangerous; the last thing he needed was to let himself get caught up trying to figure out the intricacies of the guy holding him hostage.

The only thing he needed to worry about now was how to escape.

Derek had dropped him off here a couple of hours ago and, in that time, Stiles had already checked the entire room over. There were no windows, no cracks in the concrete walls or floor, and the door, though not quite as ominous as the other one, was still just as impenetrable. Both the outer-facing locks and the camera were obviously newly installed, so Stiles guessed this room hadn’t been made to keep something _in_. Nevertheless, it was doing a damn fine job.

The door creaked behind Stiles as he paced back to the bed and he spun around, nearly falling off balance as the door swung open to reveal a busty blonde in a leather jacket.

“Erica Reyes.” Stiles straightened his back and crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes at her.

Erica smirked. “Stiles.”

“You’re looking. . . different,” he hedged. And by different he meant _phenomenal_ , what the hell was she into? The last time he’d seen her, she was the shy, frazzled girl he sometimes ran into at the station, picking up her alcoholic dad. He’d snuck a peek at her chart when he had to take her to the hospital that time she started seizing in the parking lot – he knew all about her epilepsy and prescriptions and what they did to her. Now she was. . . well, now she was a bombshell, and given the cocky look on her face, she knew it.

“You could say I’ve had some work done.” She winked and it put Stiles on edge, especially after he noticed the bottle-shaped paper bag in her hand. His eyes were torn between that and the small crack where the door was still hanging open.

“You’re welcome to try to get out. It’s been a while since I’ve had an excuse to kick someone’s ass.” Her expression only added to the challenge of her words.

And Stiles considered it, he really did. But her confidence spoke to one of two things - either she really was as good a fighter as she claimed and Stiles had no chance, or she had backup on the other side of the door. He glanced back to the bag. “Got something you wanna share with the class?”

“Just dropping something off, actually.” She reached into the pocket of her leather jacket, and Stiles suppressed a flinch, barely reacting in time when she hurled whatever it was at his chest. He fumbled to catch it in his right hand and brought it up to his face to inspect.

A pill bottle. _His_ pill bottle, the one that he always kept in his backpack.

He looked up to her, confused. “Won’t you get in trouble for giving this to me?”

“Well, I really hope not, considering Derek’s the one who sent me down. Apparently he doesn’t want you to keep scuffing up the floor.” She gave a pointed look to the pathway Stiles had been pacing and Stiles scowled back, glancing quickly up to the camera in the corner. “Don’t even think about it.”

Stiles bit back a 1984 reference, glancing back to the bag. “That for me too?”

She glanced down to the bottle like she’d forgotten it was there and then tossed it to him. “Only if you don’t want to dry swallow.”

Stiles caught it with his left hand, grumbling to himself, “Oh, I’m sure Derek would love to watch th- Gatorade?” Stiles pulled the bottle out and let the bag fall to the ground.

Erica shrugged. “Derek said anything but water.”

Stiles snorted, holding the drink under his arm as he twisted the cap on the Adderall. Erica stepped back, making to turn around and then stopped.

“Dinner is at 7. Don’t be late.” She winked and turned around, grabbing the door.

“Ha ha, very funny,” Stiles mumbled, tipping the bottle to let several pills fall into his hand.

“Oh, and Stiles?” Erica ducked her head back around the door. He glanced  up, gripping the pills as he reached for the Gatorade. “Go easy on the Adderall, no refills while you’re here.”

Stiles looked down at the half-empty bottle of pills and the small pile in his hand before meeting her gaze again. “And how long will that be?

Erica cocked her head and smirked. “Funny, I asked Derek the exact same thing.”

“What did he s-“ Stiles started to ask, but then Erica was gone and the door was closed, lock sliding home. He sighed, “What did he say?”

Stiles tipped the excess pills back into the bottle, leaving just one in his palm. If he took the actual prescribed dose, he had enough to last just over two weeks – he didn’t dream he’d be in here that long, but he didn’t want to push his luck.

After swallowing the pill and taking a generous gulp of the red Gatorade, Stiles put the bottles on the floor next to the bed and plopped down on top of it, not bothering to stop his foot from bouncing as he tried to count the marks on the concrete ceiling.

 

* * *

 

Derek was sitting on the couch, head in hands. He still hadn’t called the Sheriff, unsure of how he should handle this. He’d fucked up big time and he knew it, and all he could think right then was how much he wished Laura was with him so he could ask her what to do.

“Stop that.”

Startled, Derek looked up. He hadn’t even heard Boyd approach, but there he was, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed.

“Stop what?”

“Beating yourself up.” Boyd moved into the room. “No one’s got time for that.” ~~~~

“We’ll all have plenty of time in prison,” Derek snarked, eyes watching Boyd as he moved to sit opposite Derek in the armchair.

Boyd sighed. “Yeah well, even if we get sent to prison, it’s not like any of us would be there very long,” he commented, dropping forward, elbows on his thighs. “C’mon, Derek, what’s your plan?”

“I’m going to take it as a compliment that you assume I have one,” was all Derek said in reply, eyebrows ticking upwards before he let his head drop back into one hand.

“Alright, then. Let’s look at our options,” Boyd suggested.

It was Derek’s turn to sigh. “Well, according to Peter, our only option is to kill the kid, dump his body and pretend this never happened,” Derek told Boyd, mouth settling into a dark frown.

“Peter’s a psychotic, self-serving asshole.”

“True, but sometimes his best interests coincide with our own,” Derek hedged.

“No, they really don’t,” Boyd said firmly. Derek exhaled sharply, nodding. He knew very well all of his betas had wanted Peter dead the second they’d discovered he was alive again. Truth be told, he wanted the same thing, but what he wanted and what he needed were definitely not the same when it came to his uncle.

“So, we either let him go and skip town immediately, or we call the Sheriff, threaten to kill his son if he doesn’t hand over the evidence, and we have until the end of the month to skip town.” Derek sat up, crossing his arms. “That is, of course, the best case scenario in which no hunters find out because then we’re all dead.”

“There hasn’t been a sign of the Argents since Peter’s death. Danny’s pretty sure he took his kid and ran.”

“Yeah, to plan his revenge on us for the deaths of his sister, wife and father,” Derek shot back dryly.

Boyd rolled his eyes, but got back on topic. “Derek, you know what needs to happen.”

Taking a deep breath, Derek rubbed his hand over his face. “Yeah, I do.” He looked up to meet Boyd’s eye. “We have to see this through.”

Boyd nodded, reaching to slide Derek’s phone across the coffee table. After staring at it for several seconds, Derek leaned forward to grab it just as it started to vibrate. It was Isaac.

“Hey, what’s up?”

_“Yeah, we maybe have a little bit of a problem,”_ Isaac started.

“Of course we do.”

An hour later, Derek was carrying a covered plate of parmesan chicken across the yard and wondering how this became his life.

“Hey, Derek,” Erica greeted, setting down the book she’d been reading. Her nostrils flared and her eyes flicked to the plate before narrowing suspiciously. “What did Isaac do?”

Smirking, Derek set the plate of Erica’s favorite food on the desk. “I assumed you would know.” He nodded to the screen. “Anything interesting?” he asked. He could see Stiles sprawled obscenely across the bed on his back, one foot hanging over the edge. He tore his eyes away from the scene to see Erica shaking her head.

“Not particularly. He’s calmed down over the last hour or so; the Adderall was a good call.”

Derek nodded, glancing back to the screen. Stiles’ head was resting on one forearm, his other hand on his stomach. “Head back up to the house, Boyd and Isaac will catch you up. There’s been a change of plans.”

“Oh, there was a plan?” Erica asked sweetly.

After opening his mouth for a retort, Derek immediately cut off with a sharp exhale, rolling his eyes against his amusement. “Just go.”

Erica stood, giving Derek a peck on the cheek before disappearing out into the yard.

Derek sat in her chair, looking closer at Stiles. He’d had Danny install an HD camera and, looking at the teen lying there in striking detail, he was regretting it. Mostly. Sort of. Not really.

Stiles’ button up flannel was thrown open across the bed and his other two shirts were rucked up, displaying several inches of skin above the waistband of his jeans. Most of that was covered by Stiles’ broad hand and long fingers that were playing absently with what looked to be very fine hair growing in a trail that narrowed before thickening just before it disappeared beneath the bronze-colored button.

Derek wanted to lick it.

By the time he finally dragged his eyes from the self-fondling, his cock was hard and throbbing in his jeans. He took in the rest of Stiles, drawing deep breaths through his nose as his eyes tracked down past the spread of Stiles’ legs and up to the spots where the shirts pulled tight and revealed the toned muscle beneath. Derek stopped when his gaze reached the neckline of Stiles’ shirt, glancing around though he knew no one was nearby.

His hand slipped down his torso to rub his erection through his jeans, and he let out a soft groan as his eyes fluttered at the sensation. His thumb rubbed over the button as he considered popping it open. No one ever needed to know. . .

Derek jerked his hand away. He shouldn’t give in, shouldn’t encourage this, especially not now, with the circumstances changed. Stiles was _seventeen_ and the Sheriff’s son, not to mention Derek’s prisoner.

He sighed, resting his head on his forearms on the desk and _willing_ his erection to go away. It didn’t take more than a momentary focus on his sister and the fire before his cock began to noticeably soften. He glanced back up to the screen to see that Stiles hadn’t moved, other than the hand still playing across his stomach.

Taking a deep breath, Derek stood from the chair and grabbed the plate. He glanced back at the screen one last time before turning the lock and pushing open the door quickly.

“Wah!” Stiles shouted, startling so hard he fell off the bed.

Derek watched, tilting his head in curiosity as Stiles got to his feet, rubbing at an elbow and glaring at Derek. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you to knock?”

He considered a moment before answering truthfully, “Actually, no.” The Hale family was never really big on privacy or personal space. “Though I can move without falling over, so my childhood wasn’t a total waste.”

“Given where you ended up, I think the jury’s still out on that one.”

Derek let that one go, lifting the plate. “I brought you dinner.”

 

* * *

 

The food was a tad cold and the fork was plastic, but it tasted good. Stiles sat back on the bed, smirking when he saw that the chicken was already cut up.

“I take it you don’t trust me with a knife?”

Derek raised an eyebrow at him. “I don’t make the same mistake twice.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, poking one of the pieces with the fork and popping it in his mouth. Derek stepped back and leaned against the door, arms crossed in front of him in a way that was obviously meant to be intimidating, but came off as obscene. He scowled.

There were far more important things happening than what made his dick twitch and he needed to remember that. Derek Hale was bad news, and Stiles needed to stop thinking of him as attractive or intriguing. He needed to stop thinking about him completely.

Stiles devoured the food quickly, assuming Derek was just waiting around to make sure he ate and would leave when he was done. When that didn’t happen, when he swallowed the last bite, set the plate on the floor, flopped on his back on the bed, and Derek still stood there at the door, he finally looked up.

“You got a lurking quota you gotta fill or do you have something to say?” Stiles asked, letting his head drop back against the bed.

“You’re not afraid of me.” He didn’t say it like a question, more like an observation, and Stiles ignored how interesting that was.

“Never was,” he threw out as casually as he could manage.

Derek snorted. “You’d think someone who lies as much as you do would be better at it.”

Stiles lifted his head again, managing to glare despite the vision before him. “Yeah, and you’d think someone who runs one of the biggest drug rings in the western half of the United States would have better things to do than hang out in a dingy cellar with a teenager.” He sat up, propping himself on his elbows, eyebrows raised in challenge. “And yet, here you are.”

“Well I came down here to tell you about your father, but I can leave.” He started to turn, reaching for the door, but Stiles sat up, hand reached out as if to stop him.

“Wait, what about my father? Did something happen? Is he ok?” His heart was racing in his chest as Derek turned back around, settling against the door.

“As far as I know.”

Stiles relaxed, scooting back on the bed to lean against the wall, throwing a hand out toward Derek to continue. “Then what is it?”

“Do you remember the murders from a few years back?”

Stiles tilted his head. “The ones with the moon thing?”

Derek drew back a bit. “The- what?”

Stiles sighed. “The murders, the ones that were all tied to trees in the preserve?” Derek nodded. “Yeah, well, I figured out that they were all facing exactly toward where the moon would’ve been in the sky at the time of death. Dad never listened to me though, and then they just stopped happening. Case went co- what?” Derek was staring at him intensely and it was unnerving.

“How did you get enough information to even figure that out? What were you, like 9?”

Stiles dropped his eyes, thinking back to that time, voice soft at first. “Yeah, I was. Wasn’t long after my mom died and sometimes Dad had to take me to work with him when Mrs. Franklin was busy. I started peeking at the case files, making copies when he wasn’t looking. Had it figured out by the third murder.”

Derek looked. . . impressed. There wasn’t any other word for it. But he brought him back to the subject at hand, the only one that really mattered.

“What does this have to do with my dad?”

Derek met his eyes, inhaling slowly. “Apparently some similar cases showed up down state. Your father was called in to help with the investigation.”

Stiles sat forward. “Called in, like. . .”

“He left for the airport an hour ago.”

“Wait, does he know-”

Derek shook his head, cutting Stiles off. “No, he thinks you need space and will talk when he gets back.”

Stiles’ nostrils flared at the idea of Derek being on his phone, talking to his dad, reading private messages. He hoped to god Derek didn’t stray from his dad’s conversation. Then realization dawned on him. “So, what does that mean for me?”

Derek sighed. “It means you’re gonna be here a while.”

“Oh, that’s - that’s just fantastic. How long?”

Shaking his head, Derek responded, “Your guess is as good as mine.”

Stiles nodded his head, pursing his lips before huffing out an exhale. “Awesome.” He dropped his voice, mumbling to himself, looking down as he crossed his arms. “With my luck I’ll be stuck here when the Argents come back for round two.”

There was a _whoosh_ of air and Stiles looked up to see Derek’s jaw clenching. “I told you, I don’t make the same mistake twice.”

Stiles shook his head, trying to make sense of what Derek was saying. “What do you mean, twice? It’s not like the fire was your fault in the first place.”

But Derek just looked down, eyes closing and jaw clenching. He looked _angry_ and hurt, and it didn’t make any sense. Stiles was still watching him expectantly when he finally looked back up. “Not everything ends up in a case file.” He was already turning, hand on the door.

“Hey wait, no!” Stiles leapt forward, hand outstretched. He didn’t even really know why, he just knew he couldn’t let the conversation end like that.

Derek paused, taking a deep breath, shoulders rising and falling.

Then Stiles just started talking. “I – I remember the fire, ya know.” Derek turned slowly, watching as Stiles adjusted his position on the bed. He was talking fast, not really looking at Derek as it all started to gush out. “Like my dad and I, we were sitting at home watching a movie and he got this call. He just had this _look_ on his face like he was terrified and when I asked him what happened, he said the Hale house burned down.”

Stiles glanced up, chest clenching with the memory. Derek still had a hand on the door, turned as he watched Stiles with wide eyes. “I was so dumb, like, ten years old. I didn’t get it, because when he said that most of the family didn’t make it,” Stiles paused, dropping his voice a little as Derek closed his eyes. “I thought he’d be happy, like, he’d been after your family as long as I could remember, they were the bad guys, ya know, so I thought he’d be relieved or just something other than the utter horror on his face.”

Derek was silent, face blank, so Stiles kept going. “And he told me something I’ll never forget. He said, ‘Son, I do what I do to stop things like this. What happened to that family is a tragedy, I don’t care who you are or what you do, no one ever deserves this. Not ever.’”

Biting at the inside of his lips, Stiles continued in a whisper, “I think - I think that’s the night my dad taught me how to be a human.”

There was a silence for a moment, and then he looked up to see Derek staring at him. He just looked so fucking vulnerable that Stiles’ heart started to break, and they held each other’s eyes for longer than Stiles cared to count. What he saw in front of him wasn’t some criminal mastermind, wasn’t the big bad from all of his father’s rantings; he was just some kid who was in way over his head and knew it. What he saw was fear and confusion and uncertainty, not malice or cruelty.

Then Derek gave a slight nod, swallowing. “He did a pretty good job.” He was out the door, latch locked, before Stiles fully registered the words.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I'm hella sorry this took so long to finish. Good news is I've graduated college and my freetime is actually /mine/, so with any luck chapters will be coming out much more often! 
> 
> Shit goes down, hope you all like it!!

Derek was avoiding Stiles. There was no other word for it. He’d somehow reached a place in his life where he was avoiding a seventeen-year-old boy that he had literally kidnapped. It was the joke and the punch-line all rolled into one.

The others knew it too. He could chalk it up all he wanted to occupational stress, but he knew Boyd saw right through it. It was obvious enough when he spent an hour and a half picking out books from the house library, but then declared he didn’t have the time to take the box down to Stiles. Even more so when he made his mom’s pork roast and prepared Stiles’ plate specially, but sent Isaac down because he insisted he needed to set the table.

Though perhaps the most obvious was the pillow. That stupid pillow that he was sure he was never going to hear the end of. After two nights of watching Stiles toss and turn without getting any sleep, he’d sent Erica back in to investigate why. After an initial response of “well maybe because I’m being held captive by a band of criminals,” he’d broken down and admitted that he had trouble sleeping without his pillow. Derek was honestly surprised he’d shared that, especially since he could tell by his heartbeat that it was something that held sentimental value. It was also pretty clear that Stiles was too tired to put up much of a fight when questioned.

It was no surprise to anyone when Derek returned two hours later with the pillow from Stiles’ bed, along with some clothes. Being in Stiles’ bedroom had been an _experience_ to say the least – it smelled overwhelmingly of Stiles and far more like sex that he’d been prepared for. As if he needed another reminder that Stiles was a teenager – though given the way his jeans tightened ever-so-slightly more the longer he was there, perhaps he did.

He’d sent Boyd in that time, if for no other reason than that he was the only one of Derek’s betas that could keep a straight face. He hadn’t, however, missed the opportunity to mention that it had been Derek who retrieved the pillow, not that Derek dared call him on it and admit he’d been listening in.

It’d been six days since their last conversation. Six days of drowning himself in shipments and making deals with new buyers. Six days of picking up the busy work from Greenberg and Danny. Six days of nodding politely when the others told him Stiles had asked for him, and then changing the subject or leaving the room.

It was pathetic and immature, that much he could admit. To himself. With everyone else it was just a game of denial.

“Derek!”

He looked up, even though Erica’s shout had come from below. When he listened closer, he could hear a commotion and several loud voices in the distance. He registered one of them as Stiles’ while Erica’s voice still bellowed through the house.

“Yeah, I think you need to get down here like right now, the kid is going nutso.”

“I can hear that, thank you,” Derek replied. He was already down the stairs, brushing past her in the doorway and sprinting for the door to the dungeon. There was a loud banging that he assumed was coming from Stiles, his voice louder than both Boyd’s and Isaac’s. When he got inside, he could see them both up against the door, shouting at him to calm down and be quiet.

Danny was at the monitor, watching Stiles on the screen. The banging was just his fists repeatedly beating against the door as he screamed through it.

“- don’t understand! You have to let me out, okay, right now, this is so much more important than your stupid drug bullshit.”

“Stiles.” Derek’s voice was loud and commanding, silencing his betas as he pushed past them to the door.

The pounding stopped. “Derek, you have to listen to me. This is important, like, fuck, so important ok, _lives_ are at stake. You have to let me out of here right now.” His voice was tense and frantic and _terrified_.

Ignoring the stares of everyone in the room, Derek rested his head against the door. “You know I can’t do that, Stiles.”

Just like that, Stiles’ tone switched. “God dammit, Derek, I’m not fucking around here, okay. This isn’t some ploy to get away, or get you busted or whatever, I don’t _care_ about that right now. People could die, alright, this is serious, _please_.”

Stiles’ heartbeat was erratic, but there were no upticks, meaning he wasn’t lying. Or rather, he _thought_ he was telling the truth.

Derek sighed, taking too long to answer because then Stiles was talking again. “Wow, you finally decide to bless me with your presence and that’s all you’ve got?”

“You and I both know I can’t just let you go. Tell me what’s going on and I can send someone to-“

“No!” Stiles shouted, pounding his fist against the door again. The sudden loud noise made all the werewolves wince. “You can’t just- No one else can do this. It has to be me and only me.”

“Stiles, just tell me what’s go-“

“No, _fuck_ , listen to me Derek, I can’t. All I can tell you is that people will die if you don’t let me out of here. Please, trust me.”

There was no bite or humor in Stiles’ words, no blips in his heartbeat. Derek closed his eyes and took a deep breath before looking back, at Boyd and Erica and Isaac. At his _pack_. He was their Alpha and it was his job to protect them at any cost. He couldn’t risk their safety by letting Stiles go.

“I’m sorry, Stiles, I can’t.”

The next blow was expected, though he saw Erica and Isaac wince out the corner of his eye. The pounding continued, louder and louder as Stiles banged harder and harder.

“Let me out! Let me out!” he screamed, over and over as Derek stood there frozen, trying to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do.

“Derek, he’s gonna break his hand if you don’t stop him,” Boyd said. His voice wasn’t demanding or even tense. He sounded a million times more calm than Derek felt, each blow on the door reverberating through Derek’s head. Stiles was starting to lose his voice from screaming and the pounding was getting ever harder.

“I know.” Derek inhaled, shaking his head a little at what he was about to do. But Stiles wasn’t leaving him with any choice. “Erica, run up to the house and grab the black case in the back room. Quickly.”

Erica was gone without another word, sprinting at full speed. They watched her go, then Boyd turned to Derek.

“Chloroform is faster.”

Derek nodded. “I know. I’ll handle it.”

It took less than a minute for Erica to return, carrying the sedatives. Derek opened the case on the desk and set up the needle, drawing out enough to keep Stiles down for a couple of hours at least. He snapped it into place in the injection gun, wasting no time as he moved to the door. He looked up to his betas, all standing and watching with tense eyes, ears as over-sensitive as Derek’s with all the noise.

“Stay out here.”

With that, he slid the lock on door and pushed it open _hard,_ knowing it would throw Stiles back. The kid recovered quickly though, managing to stay upright. He started heading toward the open door, eyes wild. The smell of blood confirmed that Stiles had already done plenty of damage to his hands, so Derek was careful as he caught him, pinning his arms down and pulling Stiles up against his chest with his right arm. He fell back against the door, closing it as Stiles struggled in his grip.

“No! Please, no,” Stiles pleaded, flailing and kicking his legs out, but Derek held fast, pressing the needle into the skin of Stiles’ throat and squeezing the trigger. “F-fuck,” he gritted out, heartrate ratcheting up. “No, ” he said again, but this time it was more of a whine. “You’re just gonna stand by while people get hurt?”

Derek clenched his jaw, tossing the gun and wrapping his arm around Stiles’ forearms to keep them still. Derek could smell the sedative spreading, could hear when it started to slow Stiles’ heartrate. A few seconds later his squirming started to lose its energy and he began to slump back against Derek, murmuring nonsensical curses.

It wasn’t until he was nearly passed out that he spoke again, spitting out the words as he went completely still in Derek’s arms. “I thought you were different.”

Derek’s stomach dropped and his eyes closed. He swallowed. “I guess I’m not.”

Stiles was out before he could respond, dead weight in Derek’s arms, the smell of sedative burning in Derek’s nose. He bent to hook an arm under Stiles’ legs, standing and carrying him over to the bed. He set the teen down gently, making sure his neck was in a decently comfortable position. Even so, he didn’t look calm or serene like he did when he slept. He just looked blank, empty.

Derek walked back out to his pack, all standing up from where they leaned  against the wall when he opened the door. “What happened?” he asked, his voice sounding weary even to him.

Danny spoke up first. “He was pacing back and forth again. Kept counting off on his fingers, then recounting. It’s why I called Boyd down,” he explained, glancing over to Boyd.

“He wanted to see if I could hear what he was saying,” Boyd clarified. “But by the time I got down here, he’d gone stock-still in the middle of the room. Then he ran to the door and started yelling and banging, begging to be let out.”

Heaving a deep breath, Derek nodded. “Okay. Isaac – check the sheriff’s station, ask about any unusual activity, anything that would make Stiles think someone was in danger.” Isaac nodded, ducking out. Derek turned to Erica. “Call in some of the informants around town. Same thing. There’s something going on and I want to know what it is.” Once she was gone, Derek turned to Boyd.

“When he wakes up, he’s just gonna go at it again, and we need him to not do that.” Boyd gave a thoughtful expression, but Derek cut him off. “I’d like to avoid tying him to the chair again if we can.”

“We could handcuff him to the bed frame.”

Derek narrowed his eyes, considering it briefly before nodding. “Fine. Find a regular pair, if you can, we don’t need him asking questions about why we’ve got bear shackles on hand.”

Boyd nodded and headed down the tunnel where they kept the bulk of their weapons and restraints. Derek turned and sat in the chair, letting his head fall into his hand, trying to remind himself that Murphy’s Law wasn’t actually real.

 

\------

 

Stiles’ first thought as he woke up was just how incredibly sick he was of waking up feeling like his head was filled with fog. The memories were hazy, but he had a vague image of Derek’s arm across his chest. He blinked, opening his eyes in small increments, realizing they were still not functioning right because something was off about the light. There was a roaring sound in his ears that just made him feel even more dizzy.

He tried to take stock of his body while his eyes and ears still adjusted, but as soon as he tried to flex his fingers, he hissed because _ow_. Instinctively he tried to pull his hands in, but they got caught up on something, and there was a clanging sound that was altogether too familiar.

Opening his eyes fully, Stiles tracked the shape of handcuffs around both his wrists, the chain looping around the bed frame. He groaned loudly because really? What the fuck? He turned his hands a bit to see his knuckles, noting the angry red scrapes across both hands and – oh yeah.

It all came back at once, the realization, the shouting and banging, the argument with Derek. Being drugged again. The anger from before was eclipsed only by fear because _Scott_. He twisted in the cuffs, trying to look around the room while ignoring the growing pressure in his head. He froze when he looked over his elbow to see-

The door was open. Huh. That was-

“Unusual,” he said aloud.

It took him a minute and he came closer to elbowing himself in the face than he was proud to admit, but Stiles managed to get himself into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. He rested his cuffed hands on his thighs, leaning back over his shoulder to get a better look outside. No wonder the light looked so different. The overhead light in his room was off and the only source came from the sliver of yard he could see.

If he was counting right - and he was sure he was - Stiles had been here for eight days, but this was the first time he’d even seen a glimpse of sunlight. All he had in the room was an uncovered overhead bulb that he had to turn on and off over by the door. It’d led to more than one stubbed toe as he tried to navigate his way across the room when he woke up in the mornings.

But this was real sunlight – he could even see grass and dirt and trees in the thin slice of yard that was visible from his angle. He couldn’t see much of the room between his door and the outside, but he could see the edge of a table if he leaned far enough forward.

‘Hello?” he called. “Anyone there?”

If there was someone out there, they’d already noticed that he was awake and just weren’t saying anything. If there wasn’t… well it meant something was happening. Something big enough for them to leave him not only alone, but with his door still open.

They probably assumed the handcuffs would be enough to hold him until they got back. They forgot he was the son of the Sheriff.

When Stiles was fourteen, one of his father’s prisoners had gotten loose. The guy’d been handcuffed to the bench in the station when a call came in about a shootout at an old farmhouse. Most of the station had been called in as backup, leaving just one deputy to guard the cells. The guy on the bench was gone when they came back, both cuffs still closed and attached to the bench. When his dad caught up with him a week later, both of his thumbs were broken. Of course, Stiles spent several hours that night researching how exactly it was done; he was fascinated and may or may not have been caught trying to attempt it by his dad. That didn’t go over well.

Stiles sighed, looking down at his hands. “Fuck.” This was gonna hurt. A lot. Luckily he only needed to break one.

Twisting his left wrist, Stiles braced it against the inside of the cuff and pressed the base of his right up against it. He leaned over and bit down on his pillow, pushing his left hand through the cuff just enough to give him leverage.

Then Stiles took a deep breath.

In one swift motion, he yanked back on his left hand and pressed forward with his right as hard as he could. The cuff slammed into the base bone of his left thumb and Stiles bit down on the pillow as he suppressed a noise at the pain.

But the bone didn’t break.

Stiles nearly cried out in shear frustration because seriously? His thumb was throbbing, but the bone was still very much intact. As he rubbed his right thumb over the skin, he could feel it starting to swell with a bruise and _shit_. If it swelled too much, it’d be even nearly impossible to break.

Not even thinking, Stiles repeated the motion, putting all of his strength into the fixed point at the base of his left thumb. He could hear the _crack_ just a millisecond before the pain hit and Stiles _did_ cry out. It was mostly muffled by the pillow, but Stiles still snuck a glance over his shoulder to make sure no one was coming.

The cuff had made it about halfway off his hand, so he slipped it the rest of the way off, cringing at the way it jostled the broken bone. A small whine escaped his throat, but he spit out the pillow – if anyone was watching, they’d have come in by now.

The chain clanged as he slid the loose cuff around the bed and gripped it in his right hand. His left hand throbbed painfully as he stood and he drew it close into his body. It hit him then that he’d actually done it, he’d gotten free, but he didn’t spare time for a victory dance. He wasn’t in the clear just yet.

Stiles barely spared a glance at the computer in the next room as he dashed out into the wooded area. Once outside, he could see the Hale manor up at the top of the hill, so he turned and started running in the opposite direction. Every step sent a wave of pain through his hand but he just gritted his teeth against it, jumping over fallen logs and weaving between trees.

The highway should be about two miles out and Stiles could run that in under fifteen minutes during cross country season. He was definitely going slower than that, left hand immobile against his chest and throwing off his rhythm, but he was still keeping up a good pace.

Until a large, heavy shape came barreling at him from the left. Stiles barely had time to duck before it collided with him, throwing him rolling across the leave-strewn ground. He was stopped by the base of a tree, which he scooted up against as he glanced around himself frantically. His whole body was sore, but his hand was all he could pay attention to, screaming in agony and causing tears to form in his eyes.

“Fu-fuck,” Stiles breathed out to himself, trying to keep himself from hyperventilating.

“You must be Stiles.”

Stiles turned toward the voice to see a tall, sandy-haired man coming out from behind a tree. Squinting, he could just make out the man’s face in the shade of the forest.

Peter Hale.

According to the town, he’d shown up miraculously recovered after Kate Argent murdered Laura Hale and tried to take over the company from Derek. He almost got it too, but suddenly he was missing and it was presumed Derek had killed him to maintain power - that is, until he showed back up two months later.

The story had always smelled fishy to Stiles because Allison hadn’t mentioned her aunt being in town until nearly a month after Laura had been found dead in the woods – well, half of her. Derek’s confession made much more sense.

Peter was stalking closer to Stiles and still talking. “Tsk tsk, don’t you remember the story of Little Red? You’re not supposed to go wandering the woods alone.”

“Oh my God, what is with you Hales and your obsession with Little Red?” Stiles spat back, frantically trying to plan an escape. Peter had the advantage, but if he could get up and stay out of reach, he might still be able to outrun him. “Is it the only fairy tale your family knows?”

At that, Peter smirked, letting out a soft chuckle that sent a creep up Stiles’ spine. “Come on now, Stiles, haven’t you figured it out yet? I thought you were the smart one.”

Stiles’ eyebrows drew together, confused. “Sorry to disappoint, but I’m not actually psychic. Must’ve skipped my generation, so I guess you’ll just have to tell me.”

Peter seemed to ponder that a moment, tilting his head slightly. “The story is long and the time is short, so unfortunately you’ll have to die in ignorance.” Sending him a beaming, predatory grin, Peter stepped forward, but Stiles was already scrambling to his feet.

“Oh, shi-“ He tripped on a root and fell forward onto his hands, sending searing pain up his arm from his thumb that caused him to cry out. Nevertheless, he pushed it down and got back up, taking his first step just as Peter’s hand circled his left arm.

Stiles swung around, dropping the cuff from his right hand. It collided with Peter’s cheek, knocking his balance off and surprising him enough that he dropped Stiles’ arm. He yowled, but Stiles didn’t stick around to savor his expression.

He barely made it three steps before he was sent crashing into another tree. _Fuck_ , this guy was fast.

“Running is futile, Stiles, I’d have thought you’d know that better than anyone.”

Stiles turned to see Peter advancing on him again. “What are you talking about?”

Before Peter could answer, another dark shape came flying through the trees and landed next to Peter.

He was crouched in a horrifyingly familiar position, one hand braced between his two legs, but then he was standing and _roaring_ at Peter.

“Leave!”

The sound reverberated through the trees and through Stiles’ body, but that wasn’t what caught his attention.

Red. Derek’s eyes flashed red, almost too quick that Stiles missed it, but he was _sure_ of what he saw. The mutherfucker was-

Stiles could barely think he was so filled with rage. He barely registered Peter and Derek arguing as they stood above him.

“I _warned_ you to stay away from him,” Derek _growled_ at his uncle.

Peter didn’t seem fazed. “And I warned you of what would happen if you let the kid live. He was barely a mile from the freeway Derek, and what do you think would’ve happened to us then?”

Stiles was backed against a tree and he started to edge around it slowly. He braced his right hand on the ground as he moved, ignoring the protestation of his left hand at the movement. If he could just get to the side without them noticing…

“I told you I would handle- You!” Derek turned then, pointing at Stiles. Stiles froze, looking back at him; he looked _livid_. “Stay put. Don’t even get me started on-“

“Started on what? How you yanked me off the streets and threw me in a dungeon? How you _literally_ kidnapped me, so I tried to escape like _any sane person would_? How you-“ Stiles cut off that last part, licking his lips and swallowing. “Please, _start_ , I’d love to hear what you have to say for yourself.”

Derek’s nostrils flared. “Shut up,” he ordered, just as Peter commented, “Well, he’s not wrong.”

Lifting a tense hand to point, Derek snarled at Peter, “Get out of my sight before I reconsider my decision not to kill you.”

Peter glared a moment before ducking out. “Very well.”

Derek waited until he was out of sight before heaving a deep, angry sigh and turning back to Stiles. He glanced over him quickly while Stiles tried to burn a hole through his skull with his mind.

“Let me see your hand.”

“That’s hilarious. You should do stand up,” Stiles retorted, pressing back against the tree as Derek stepped forward.

“Stiles,” he warned, lowering down to his level and reaching out.

“Derek,” Stiles mocked back at him, jerking back.

Dropping his hand, Derek sighed. “Fine. Stand up, we’re heading back.” He backed off, standing.

Stiles burst into laughter. “If you really think I’ll willingly walk back to my own prison, you’re even dumber than I thought you were.”

That seemed to hit a nerve because Derek’s jaw clenched. “Stand up or I’ll do it for you.”

“Oh yeah, I’m sure you’d like to get your hands all over this,” Stiles snarked, drawing back further as he cradled his left hand to his chest – the throbbing was threatening to send tears to his eyes again, but he fought them back.

“Wouldn’t exactly be a hardship,” Derek admitted – and wow, that was very possibly the strangest and angriest compliment he’d ever gotten. Derek’s tone was cold and detached, sending a shiver of fear – and something else he didn’t want to admit to - down his spine.

Stiles glared for several moments, stomach turning at the entire situation. When it was clear Derek was losing his patience, he braced his right hand back against the tree trunk and pushed off, gritting his teeth. He was nearly to his feet when his hand slipped and he collapsed back against the tree, unable to suppress a groan.

“Don’t,” Stiles warned in the direction of Derek’s outstretched hands. “Don’t you dare touch me.” His voice sounded dangerous even to his own ears, and it was a credit to Derek’s composure that he didn’t laugh in Stiles’ face. They both knew very well who held the power here, though Derek likely didn’t realize just how much Stiles knew.

Derek straightened, jaw clenching even as he gave a short nod. His eyebrows spoke of confusion, but Stiles didn’t care. He just stepped around Derek and started walking back the way he came. He could hear Derek fall into step behind him.

“Don’t even try to run, I _will_ catch you.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “I’m aware of that, thank you,” he replied in a scathing tone.

Hatred for Derek Hale was burning in his veins. It was only the knowledge that it would end extremely poorly for him that kept him from turning around and socking him in the face. He might’ve done it anyway if he didn’t already have one broken hand.

It didn’t matter that Stiles was more attracted to Derek than he’d been to anyone he’d ever met. It didn’t matter how obvious it was that Derek had been going out of his way to be nice to Stiles since that first day. It didn’t matter that Derek had a tragic past and was clearly way out of his element.

None of that mattered because Derek was the werewolf that bit Scott, and Stiles was going to make sure he paid for destroying his best friend’s life.

 


End file.
